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Literature Text
The vain house
Of human ambition has failed us.
Inside its paper walls,
Conflagrant voices
Give rise
To fire, foul play, skullduggery,
Perpetual divisions.
And yet,
And yet the silent workmanship,
And the humble mystery of craft,
And the sweet nature of our youth
Raised from our innocense
Despite such vain foundations.
How much of this natural inclination
For excellence and truth becomes
Exiled by our inner strife and enmity?
Yet what lives within
Must have a voice,
For shouldn’t the living always have a voice?
And here the biting contradiction
Of deciding
That the sometime-voice of one
Should rise above the alltime-voice of others.
O for a world of everlasting innocense,
O for streets without experience,
O for humans
Advancing without bad blood
Between their begats and begetters,
O for houses built beyond the badlands
Of human understanding.
Of human ambition has failed us.
Inside its paper walls,
Conflagrant voices
Give rise
To fire, foul play, skullduggery,
Perpetual divisions.
And yet,
And yet the silent workmanship,
And the humble mystery of craft,
And the sweet nature of our youth
Raised from our innocense
Despite such vain foundations.
How much of this natural inclination
For excellence and truth becomes
Exiled by our inner strife and enmity?
Yet what lives within
Must have a voice,
For shouldn’t the living always have a voice?
And here the biting contradiction
Of deciding
That the sometime-voice of one
Should rise above the alltime-voice of others.
O for a world of everlasting innocense,
O for streets without experience,
O for humans
Advancing without bad blood
Between their begats and begetters,
O for houses built beyond the badlands
Of human understanding.
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